Shakespeare glanced around him. “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? You just want to strip me of all my sexuality, that’s what you want.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” said Ellis-Bextor.

Shakespeare pointed at a group of 20-something men kicking a ball about nearby. They were all wearing tight swimming costumes, sunglasses and nothing else. “You want me to wear safe, sexless clothing like that,” said Shakespeare. “I’m standing here in a stunning padded doublet and you hate the fact that women are eyeing me up.”

“Trust me, no-one’s eyeing you up,” said Ellis-Bextor.

“No-one?” asked the bard, rhetorically. “No-one? What about that group of girls over there?”

“They’re boys.”

“Or that smartly dressed young lady over there?”

“That’s Martin Rossiter from Gene.”

Shakespeare squinted at the figure who was partly silhouetted as a result of the late afternoon sun. “Oh yeah, you’re right. It is Martin Rossiter from Gene, the twat. I see you don’t have any problem with him wearing sexy attire?”

“He’s wearing a blazer,” exclaimed Ellis-Bextor incredulously.

“I know,” said Shakespeare. “Put a nice broad pair of paned hose underneath in place of those ridiculous narrow trousers and he wouldn’t look half bad.”

Sophie Ellis-Bextor tried to compose herself, but it was difficult. UNESCO World Heritage Sites always made her emotional. She needed a quiet corner where she could sit down and drink in Macchu Picchu’s splendour in solitude.

She identified a spot and laid down a tartan rug so that she wouldn’t have to sit in the dirt. Its pattern reminded her of all the other times that she’d sat quietly at UNESCO World Heritage Sites and the flood of emotion tipped her over the edge.

As the tears rolled down her face, a man approached. It was Martin Rossiter from Nineties indie band, Gene.

“Are you okay?” asked Rossiter.

“I’m fine, Martin Rossiter from Gene,” answered Ellis-Bextor. “It’s just that sometimes I find myself overcome with emotion at UNESCO World Heritage Sites. They’re so breathtaking.”

“Yes, they are,” said Rossiter. “But I must say, you seem particularly affected. Are you sure that’s all it is?”

“Yes, Martin Rossiter from Gene,” said Ellis-Bextor. “There are no other problems. No other problems whatsoever. Certainly no problems of a personal nature.”

Rossiter regarded her suspiciously. “I must say that’s an odd thing to say,” he said. “I don’t know why you would volunteer that information unless there actually were something wrong.”

“No, no. I’m quite all right,” said Ellis-Bextor, suddenly defensive.

“Are you sure?” said Rossiter.

Ellis-Bextor glanced from side to side furtively. “Well, there is one thing, Martin Rossiter from Gene. But I don’t really know if I should say.”

Rossiter scrutinised the popstrel’s facial expression and immediately felt concerned. “I think you should say. If you’re in some sort of trouble, I definitely think it would be best to say something.”

At that moment, a man dressed in stockings and a jerkin emerged from behind a high dry-stone wall. Running a finger inside his sheer linen collar, he looked down his nose at Rossiter and addressed him directly: “Who the fuck are you?” said the man.

Rossiter got as far as mouthing the first syllable of his name, but William Shakespeare interrupted him angrily: “Fuck off,” he screamed, raising his fist and advancing.